


Itch

by dulce_melos



Category: Supernatural
Genre: After s5:e16, Because they're Winchesters, Dean's avoiding, Fix-It, Gen, It's what Dean does best, Sam's just not talking about it, Samulet
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-28
Updated: 2017-01-28
Packaged: 2018-09-20 10:20:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,680
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9486974
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dulce_melos/pseuds/dulce_melos
Summary: Everything's fine. There's absolutely nothing, bothering Dean.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: Supernatural and its characters belong to someone else. This stuff right here? It's for entertainment only, no disrespect intended, no profit is being made.
> 
> Takes place after Ep: 5:16 – may contain spoilers up to that point.

 

It started as an itch.

One of those little things you don't really think about, you just scratch at it and it goes away. To be clear, this wasn't an itch, _literally_ … more like … spiritually.

No, more like.

Emotionally.

_Hell no._

It was damn irritating, is what it was.

He just needed something to distract him.

The first time it happened, he took a deep breath and pushed his foot a little harder on the gas pedal. The feel of baby's engine as the tachometer climbed was enough to do the trick. Sam was in the passenger seat, lost in thought. He glanced over at Dean when baby surged forward, his big head and long hair fighting the gentle push of gravity. The corners of his mouth turning down. But he didn't say anything, he just turned his gaze back to the road and watched the street signs tick by.

The second time it happened, they were on a hunt. Siblings, caught in a house fire (the gift of a vengeful spirit that had pushed a handily-placed, lit candle under a badly-placed, living room curtain). _Whoosh._ The family lost everything _._

But hey, they lived to tell the tale.

Watching those two kids as the medics checked them over, Dean's eyes couldn't rest on them long – he looked down. His hands were still dirty from the frantic dig in the woods out back. A rushed, muscle-straining push to get to the mostly unmarked grave of the child haunting the property. Now, he and Sammy reeked of smoke, and not just from the house fire. What mattered was the ghost was gone and the kids were not. When he glanced up the boys were hugging, hanging on to each other like their lives depended on it. Like the thought of anything happening to the other one was world-ending … and the itch came back, stronger this time. Dean frowned.

Mom and dad got home from a night out then, just in time to hug their ash and smoke-scented children. But even with this obvious comfort, brother number one couldn't stop crying – something about some gawd-forsaken carnival toy. Brother number two had won it and given it to him that summer. He'd had to play the game seventeen times to get enough wins to earn the thing and it had taken two hours, but he'd done it.

Mom hugged the little boy and said having his brother was more important.

That it was okay.

Nodding tightly to the grateful parents, Dean turned on his heel and stalked back to the Impala. Sam's eyes flicked over to Dean's retreating form. Then he turned smoothly to the parents of the children. "Sorry, he's pretty tired ma'am … I'm so glad everyone's okay … no, I have no idea how it could have happened … we were just nearby and saw the fire …"

They didn't talk on the way back to the hotel room. Dean soothed his irritation with two fingers of Jack Daniels. Twice.

But it was the third time that did it. The straw that broke the camel's back, so to speak. Dean still didn't know what was causing the itch. Something was obviously going on and he had to find out what the hell it was. They'd gotten to a new town, a new hunt. Settled into the room and Sam said something, and it was there. Dean didn't even remember what it was, his brother said. But it irritated the shit out of him, the feeling just surging up like a rising tide. It didn't make sense for him to feel this way, just … _randomly_ , and he couldn't stand it anymore.

Some small part of him thought that maybe, he was being a little bit irrational.

Well. That small part of him could go to hell.

Oh, right. _Been there, done that._

"Where are you going?" Sam's voice drifted over from where he sat near the kitchenette, head bent over his laptop. Eyeball deep in research. Seemed like this was more than a ghost and less than a demi-god. These days, that was frickin' miraculous, for any hunt to be "less-than" anything.

Again, Dean didn't care. "Going out."

"Dean."

"It's nothin' Sammy. Just gotta get some air."

Sam sighed. "Whatever. Pick up a six-pack if you go to town."

"Sure."

Driving hell-bent for leather away from the hotel, he made his way up onto what probably passed for look-out point in this two stoplight town. Wednesday nights were apparently not good nights for making out – when he pulled over to park and got out, he was alone. The moon was bright and the sky was clear. He didn't have any trouble seeing. He did one more look over, to make sure there wasn't anyone else around, and then, "Cas." His voice didn't quite echo, with nothing but forest surrounding him, but it had a strangely hollow sound, in the chill air of two am on a deserted hill. "Cas! Get down here. I know you're upset, but it's been weeks …"

The sound of wings and then a voice, too close for _any_ human being's sense of personal space, "I'm here, Dean."

Turning, Dean took a step back. "Jeez, Cas. Leave some air here for me, will you?"

"There is enough air for many people here, Dean."

"That's not what I …" Sighing, Dean said, "I need your help, Cas."

"What is the problem?"

"I think something's wrong."

"With what?"

His gaze slid away from the angel's and his mouth opened. Closed. Muttering, he said, "… I don't know. Me, I guess." Cas frowned, at that. The angel's normally slightly-unfocused gaze sharpened.

"I don't understand. You appear fine."

Voice rising, he snapped, "I _know_ that, Cas," and see, there. That irritation was still there, itching under his skin. Making him want to scream. "But something's wrong. Can you sense anything? A hex, curse, anything?"

The angel's frown deepened (if that were possible). "Who would have done this … have you angered someone recently?"

The hunter huffed a laugh. "Who haven't I angered recently?"

Castiel took a deep breath. Blinked. It occurred to Dean that the longer the angel spent with them, the more human he behaved. It was obvious he was getting to the end of the man's … angel's … patience. "What is this really about, Dean?"

"I don't know!" Throwing up his hands, Dean spun and walked a few steps away. "It's just, for a little while now, I keep getting so _angry_. I want to put my fist through something." He sighed. "It isn't normal. And Sam's around me all the time – I'm worried I – the moose hasn't even done anything wrong." His voice lowered and from the corner of his eye he saw Cas tilt his head the other way, listening. Chewing on the inside of his cheek, he finally said, "I don't know what's going on."

The trench-coated angel was silent a moment. Then he said, "You don't know."

" _No._ " Irritated (again – still), but not really wanting to piss Cas off, he crouched and looked out over the few lights that could be seen from the top of the hill. "I mean, nothing's changed. Sam's Sam. Same as always." Picking a stone out of the gravel, he tossed it into the darkness. "Me too. Well, except for dying, going to Hell." He frowned. "But this didn't happen when I got back; it's just started up. Gotta be a curse. Or a hex." Glancing over at Cas, watching and silent, he finished, "'Cept we haven't run into any witches in a while."

Cas made a sound (agreement?), nodding. He followed Dean's lead and looked out over the lights. Impatient as he felt, Dean didn't say anything, accustomed to the angel's silences. Rationally, he knew that having lived as long as Cas had, you probably weren't in a hurry to do anything – if it meant you'd have a mess to clean up. He always chose his words carefully.

But that itch under his skin didn't let him wait long. A minute passed. Mouth twisting, he picked up a handful of gravel, threw it. "So – you getting anything with that grace 'o yours?" Cas opened his mouth and started to say something. Then he stopped. Which was surprising in and of itself. Cas wasn't one to hesitate. Dean's eyebrows rose and he felt his stomach drop to somewhere near his ankles. "What?"

Finally, the angel blinked quickly a few times, taking a deep breath. Wholly human gestures that some small part of Dean recognized weren't really an act, anymore. "You're my friend."

A quick grimace and a half-smile and Dean was shaking his head at the other. "Yeah." And then, "Why? What are you saying?"

"I feel that I have some responsibility in this."

"What?"

Obviously steeling himself, Cas said, "I never should have …" He shook his head. Meeting Dean's eyes, sorrow threading all through his words, he half-explained, "If I hadn't separated you from it, for something that ended up being so pointless, it never would have come to mean what it did. Worse, when I returned it to you, I made a thoughtless comment out of my own pain." He looked away. "If I hadn't done those things, it never –" He sighed, finishing, "Never would have sullied what meant so much to you."

" _What_? Cas, you're not making any sense."

"For that, I'm truly sorry." And now the goof-ball was shaking his head, muttering under his breath. "But if I tell you, you won't accept it. If there's nothing else I've learned – there are some things humans have to figure out themselves." Looking up again, he said, "There's no curse, Dean. Or hex. And when you figure this out, I hope you can forgive me." Stunned, Dean blinked and with a rush of air, the sound of wings, Cas was gone.

And wasn't that just like an angel – frickin' riddle-masters is what they were.

He went back to Baby and sat on her hood. Looking out over the trees, he watched the city lights for a while.

. . .

Sam was still up when he got back. "Where's the beer?"

 _Crap._ "Shit. Sorry, Sam. I forgot."

"Dammit, Dean, you've been gone hours … with the car. While I've been researching."

The elder hunter was too tired to argue. "What do you want, Sam? I forgot."

Closing the laptop with a snap (that with anything else was like him throwing it into the wall), his brother stood. The chair he was in skittered back, knocking up against the wood paneling. "What's going on with you, Dean? You go from okay to pissed, in five seconds flat … and it's been going on for days. If it's me, I'd like to know what I did." Dean wanted to bristle, he really did, but Sam's tone wasn't so much challenge, as it was concern.

He made the attempt anyway. "What do you want from me, Sammy?"

His brother shook his head, disbelieving, and snapped, "I'm not asking for anything, Dean! Just - you know what? Forget it," and absurdly, Dean felt a wave of nostalgia sweep through him, suddenly remembering the first time he and Sam had _really_ argued. With sharp words that meant to cut.

It happened less and less, as they got older and wiser, with the realization that all they really had was each other. Friends and lovers and even most of what family they had left came and went, but he and Sam? Well.

They were always there for each other. It was as ingrained as breathing. As constant as Baby, his leather jacket, or ... _"If I hadn't separated you from it, for something that ended up being so pointless, it never would have come to mean what it did ... it never would have sullied what meant so much to you."_

Oh.

He opened his mouth and the words were out before he knew what he was going to say. "I'm sorry."

"What?"

"I'm sorry, Sammy."

Sam's brows drew together in confusion. "It's cool, man. Everyone gets angry sometimes, I just wish you'd -"

He shook his head and spoke around the knot that had decided to suddenly appear in his throat. "About the amulet. Throwing it away. I shouldn't have. I was just so pissed and -"

" _Oh,_ " and wasn't that a kick? Sam was looking at the rug now (instead of Dean), blinking a few times and nodding.

Dean laughed shortly. He knew, now, what Cas meant. Mouth twisting, he looked away. "I miss it. I had it for, what? Twelve years?" _It had a weight of its own,_ he thought, but didn't say. _Memories of days alone, watching over each other._ Waiting for dad and wondering if he'd come back. Not having it, there, solid against his shirt and reminding him of his brother and what he was supposed to be _doing_ with all this hunting (watch over your little brother, take care of Sammy), he felt … well, he felt a little lost.

He tried to say all that, but what came out was, "You gave it to me, Sam. It meant something," and that was close enough to what he was actually feeling that he knew without-a-doubt he'd just tripped right over into girly territory, dammit.

He cringed, waiting for the words to fade from the air between them, expecting Sam to either laugh or do the puppy-dog eyes thing. At which point he might just drink himself drunk. But when he looked up, Sam had finished his examination of the rug and was wearing this sort of slightly-surprised and speculative look on his face. "Sam?" Sam held up a finger and turned, going over to his jacket, hung over the chair he'd been sitting in. He pulled the chair away from the wall, rummaging inside his coat until he zipped open an inner pocket.

He pulled out something, a corded something, looped and mostly hidden in his sasquatch hand. "Here," he said.

"What is it?"

"Here," and Sam was half-rolling his eyes and half-smiling. "Take it." Letting the thing uncoil, the familiar pendant dropped to hang, swinging slightly in the silence.

"How …?"

Sam blew an exasperated breath and he did roll his eyes, this time. " _Cas_. He dropped by in a dream a few weeks ago. Which is really creepy, by the way. Told me you'd probably want it back at some point and something about it being his fault that you threw it away … debatable." He shrugged and Dean got that he was trying to play off the hurt he must have felt, seeing Dean do that. But Sam was still talking. "When I woke up, it was next to my pillow." He paused. "Have you talked to him about personal space?"

"So many times." He reached out, letting the pendant fall into his hand and tugged it out of his brother's grasp. He grinned. A real grin, one that lit up his face.

"I have to admit," Sam continued quietly, "I almost didn't want to keep it. I was angry, too. But … I don't know how you really feel about it, but it - well, it's weird that you don't have it." He shrugged and looked sheepish. "It kind of symbolizes all the big brother stuff you did for me, you know? So if you still want it …" He half-smiled, one shoulder lifting. "But I'm not wrapping it again."

"What? Is that how you give somebody a gift?" Dean slipped the cord over his head, feeling the weight of the pendant settle against his shirt. "Didn't I teach you better?"

Sam laughed. "No. Half the time, the presents you gave me were in folded over grocery bags."

"You wound me, Sam. After all I've done for you."

Sam laughed. "Uh-hunh."

Smiling, feeling something tight in his chest unwind, Dean said, "Thanks, Sam."

"You're welcome. And Dean?"

"Yeah?"

"I'm sorry too."

Dean nodded. "Hey, you hungry?"

"Starved."

"Okay, let's see what passes for an all-night diner in this town." Shutting and locking the motel door, Dean followed his brother to the Impala. He took a deep breath - it felt good.

No surprise, really, but the itch was gone. Hallelujah.

 

 

* * *

**Author's Note:**

> cross-posting from fanfic, originally published 8/8/2016.


End file.
